


don't be weird about it

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, First Kiss, Isekai - in another world, Pure Crack, Romance, reader drowns in santa monica and wakes up in star wars LMAO, reader is also a clown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: “LET ME REPEAT MYSELF,” you say, clearing your throat. “I AM LOOKING FOR A DIN DJAR—OW!”Some guy in a suit of armor jerks you off the table, hauling ass across the room with your wrist in tow as he drags you right out the front door. "Who sent you?” He hisses, pointing at you with the barrel of his blaster.“My boob,” you hiss back, lifting your tunic just enough to show him the tattoo of his name on your skin. "Congratulations, I'm your soulmate."
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 224





	don't be weird about it

**Author's Note:**

> again, i am not a star wars expert so i ask that u be kind to me in light of this revelation and enjoy the mando fluff for what it's worth thank you!

You’re sinking.

And the worst part is, you don’t even really realize you’re sinking until you _start_ gulping down seawater like it’s an oasis in the desert, which ironically enough only makes you thirsty. You’re clawing to stay afloat, but you can’t keep your head up and at some point your pitiful excuse for biceps gives out and you start _sinking-sinking_.

You’re wondering _wait, that can’t be right_ —humans are by design meant to float in water—but apparently physics does not apply to massive fucking whirlpools, not that you know it’s a whirlpool that’s dragging you to the depths of your demise. But you _do_ see your death flash before you, which means you start going through the highlight reel of moronic decisions that led up to this point, most of them involving the three beers you shotgunned in an attempt to impress your new friends in graduate school.

And then you think about why the fuck you thought that was a good idea because that’s the only thing you _can_ think about as you feel the last bastion of consciousness escape you. It’s a dangerous proposition to drink before trying your hand at swimming in the ocean having never swam before, but what are you if not dangerously bold and dangerously stupid in equal measure?

You just _had_ to show your new friends you were game for anything. _Had_ to prove yourself as the go-girl. The _cool_ girl. The girl who’s down for anything. Well, apparently it also means you’re down to die.

And just when you think it’s over, it _hits_.

You’re barreling into oblivion, hurtling through space and time and _stars_ , and whatever depth of perception you have is completely warped as you’re jerked out of reality with such conviction you think someone must’ve blasted you in the face with a shotgun full of rock salt.

“ _ **AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH**_ —”

Huh. That’s weird. It’s quiet.

Your eyes peel open and you’re staring into a class of fish-(?)-faced monsters (?)—all of them staring back at you like _you’re_ the freakshow around here. Well, you might as well be considering the fact that you're butt-ass-naked standing before them. You open your mouth to scream again, but the biggest fish (?) at the front of the classroom says something in some alien language, pointing to your chest where there’s a name printed on your underboob.

Yes, a name.

" _ **FUCK!! NO!!**_ \--"

Luckily, it gives you something to freak out over that isn’t your naked body. Because it’s a. Fucking. Name. Tattooed. On. Your. Underboob. Holy fuck, if you live to see another day you're pretty sure the gift of homicide from mom and dad dearest is going to be the next way you go. “What the fuck is that,” you hiss, rubbing the mark, hoping it’ll fade to nothing like a bad dream but it stays put. Rigid. Unwavering. You can feel every ridge of the mark _. “No fucking way."_

 _Din Djarin_.

“Who the fuck is that,” you mumble.

“I believe that's the name of your soulmate,” says the robot in the corner.

Oh, yeah. Because robots talk in this world. Right.

Suddenly your eyes are rolling to the back of your head as you do what you do best.

Pass out.

*

When you wake up, you realize you’ve been taken to the nurse’s station where there’s at least a bunch of other fish-faced people in medical uniforms filtering about.

There’s a droid (yes, you quickly learn they're not called robots in this world, but droids) that translates for you, too, but the novelty of the fish-people has not fucking worn out on you. OK, you have to be high or something. You drowned, now you’re seeing fish walking among you. _Talking_ fish. You almost faint again when you wake up clothed in the same tunics that they're wearing, but the name on your underboob reminds you you have places to be.

You ask the "droid" where you should go if you're looking for your soulmate and he refers you to a tavern not too far from the school that you landed in.

OK, check. You have somewhere to be now. If whatever immaterial entity dropped you here with a name carved on your boob, surely they dropped you _near_ the person or thing that owns that name too. Great. Fantastic. You now have a plan. You’re starting to make sense of this place. You know you're _not_ on earth, but you know you probably aren't too far off from it either.

So you follow the droid’s direction and arrive at the tavern, which is crowded with more fish-people and elephant-nosed people and people who don’t even look like people. Whatever, the novelty of the diversity here hasn't worn off quite yet but you tell yourself you're technically the tourist in this city so you should probably be more respectful about that shit. You suck it up, you make your way over to the bar, and then you take a breath for what you're about to do next.

And something kind of amazing happens when you make that decision. Whatever fear you have about being on this planet completely wears off because you _know_ what you have to do now.

You climb on the nearest table you can find and clear your throat.

“HELLO EVERYONE,” you announce very loudly and very stupidly, attracting the attention of nearly every single patron in the tavern, especially the slug-looking ones who look like they've probably seen better days under the sun. Or shadows, who knows. They're probably the weirdest aliens you've ever seen. Or maybe you’re the fucking alien around here. "I WOULD LIKE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE."

Mission success. Attention received.

“HAS ANYONE HEARD OF A DIN DJARIN?”

Silence.

It’s totally, _totally_ silent.

Huh.

Maybe they didn't hear you correctly.

“LET ME REPEAT MYSELF,” you say, clearing your throat. “I AM LOOKING FOR A DIN DJA— ** _OW_**!”

Some guy in a suit of armor jerks you off the table, hauling ass across the room with your wrist in tow as he drags you right out the front door. Fucking ninja--you didn't even see him coming. You didn't even see him in the room.

“That fucking hurts asshole,” you hiss, as he stops outside the tavern alleyway where it’s completely quiet. Only then does he let you go, pointing some kind of gun at your head that looks more like a—blaster? You’re not sure about the nomenclature; you just know if he presses the trigger, it’s not a bullet that’s going to wedge itself into your head. But you'll probably be dead all the same. "What the fuck is your problem--"

“Who sent you?” He says, and it's starting to dawn on you that _oh--this guy is probably Din Djarin_.

“My _boob_ ,” you tell him, lifting your tunic just enough to show him the tattoo under your breast. “Congratulations, I’m your soulmate.”

He lowers the gun.

You’re not getting a very good read on his helmet, but you can hear him sigh. “This has to be a joke,” he mutters, and for the record—you totally agree. Because your life is just one giant spectacular joke.

“A droid said this means we’re soulmates,” you snort, but then the stupid smile vanishes on your face when you realize that’s the only tangible truth you can hold onto now that you’re on a whole different fucking planet--probably a whole different dimension too. “Is that true?”

He doesn’t answer, but you get a little bolder reading his helmet.

“Yes,” he says, at last, when the silence starts stretching too long.

And then he starts peeling back the sleeve of his shirt until you see it—your name printed on the inside of his wrist, red and emboldened like it’s been scratched in with a paper clip.

You look at him, scrunching your face up in confusion, “Holy fuck, that’s my name.” And then you pause, trying to digest all these revelations because they’re starting to feel like they’re clubbing you in the head with a baseball bat made of lead. “Are you—are you human?” You tap on his helmet with your knuckles, but he grabs you by the wrist, stopping you.

“Mandalorian.”

You feel your insides curdle. “…what does that mean?” It sounds... _grave,_ and it probably means he's a whole different species. You haven't reconciled with the fact that you have a soulmate, now you have to accept the fact that he's...something else?

He sighs, “I’m human.”

All at once, that tension unwinds inside you. “What is wrong with you? Why the hell wouldn't you lead with that first.” _Fucking weirdo_. You wring your neck back and try and massage the kinks. _Moving along_. “Do you live here?”

“No.”

“Oh. Then are you—”

“On my way out right now,” he says, moving down the alleyway. "Busy. Have a job to attend to."

You’re starting to put two and two together as you watch him roll his sleeve back over his wrist. “You’re just going to leave me here?” You say, feeling your mouth go dry as you try and take stock of your new surroundings.

“Like I said, I have--"

You frown. “Fine, then I’m just going to have to ask for directions home from—” You look around and find what seems like a giant sea slug walking around with two droids. “That gentleman over there.” You beam at him. “It was nice meeting you D—”

He covers your mouth, “Forget my name.” Well, that’ll be a problem since it’s printed on your skin now, but whatever. Semantics, right? "The Mandalorian is fine."

“I’m not calling you that,” you say. “That's stupid.”

“ _Mando_.”

You shrug, "Why does it even matter if we're not going to see each other again. You're busy, right?"

And then you take off towards the slug—which makes him do a double-take.

Ah, wonderful. You’re asking directions from a slave trader.

The Mandalorian sighs, “Stupid.”

He can feel the drag in his feet as he makes his way over, studying you for a fraction of a moment before pacing towards you. The distance closes _fast_.

“Excuse me, sir— ** _HEY_**!” Before you even get a word in, he grabs you by the scruff of your collar and drags you away. “THIS IS HARASSMENT—”

For some reason, no one stops him or even spares you a second glance as he drags you down the long, winding road, up into his ship, before slamming the door shut.

*

He takes stock of all your belongings as you get on. Runs some tests so see if you’re carrying any foreign parasites, mutters something about them being archaic and dead and unworthy of his time. He asks you where you’re from and you tell him Los Angeles, specifically Santa Monica beach, which is the last place you were frolicking before you drowned and woke up in this universe. You ask him if this is something like an afterlife and he sighs again.

And then he moves on, tapping at your iPhone, which has been dead since arrival.

He doesn't say much as he studies the contraption, “Does it turn on?”

“No, but—”

He takes your phone and tosses it onto the floor, where the screen promptly cracks into a million micro-sized pieces. Go figure. “HEY! MY STREAMING ACCOUNT IS ON THAT, I HAVEN’T EVEN FINISHED HAMILTON—"

“What the hell is Hamilton.”

“What the hell is Hamilton? Oh, _come on_.” You nearly spit, “You--you've never heard of it? _We hold these truths to be self-evident_?”

He pauses, “It’s evident to me that you are a lost cause.”

Ouch. Somewhat painful, but totally fair too.

*

Eventually, you get to the important stuff.

You tell him you're from earth, that you're a graduate student in Los Angeles, and that you're paying off your student loans doing a waitressing job that you despise. Generally, you like talking about yourself, but from the lack of reaction elicited from the awesome helmet of his, you're beginning to feel like you're talking to a wall. For the most part, he just listens to you until you run out of things to say, and when you ask him if he can just drop you off where you came from, he tells you it's not that simple--that he needs to call in some kind of favor from some interdimensional travel doctor. Because not only are you from a different planet--you're from a different plane of existence too.

"So...what do I do until then?"

"Stay here," he says. "And don't get in my way."

"Do I get a say in this?"

"No."

You consider it for a moment, "What if--"

"No."

"But you didn't even hear what I was going to suggest!"

He pauses, studying your face. And you can feel him studying your face. "Fine," he says. "What is it."

"OK. Just hear me out," you clap your hands together. "So, I drowned and ended up in this universe, right? What if you need to kill me again in order to send me back?"

A pause.

"You're an idiot."

*

You always thought if you met your soulmate you would be wildly attracted to them in ways you never thought—but because you can’t see this guy’s face, that becomes a pretty moot point. He’s nice and tall, which is pretty awesome, but outside the broad shoulders, you don’t really have a sense of what he’s like physically. You wonder what his dick looks like, but you’re pretty sure if you won’t get to see his face, you’re pretty sure you’re not going to see his dick any time soon either. Truly a shame.

“Hey, fucker.”

“Try again.”

You frown, clearing your throat, “Fine, good morning.”

Well, fair enough you’re pretty attracted to his voice. Which you never thought would be a thing.

“What do you do for fun around here?”

He sighs. He does that a lot. Instead of answering, he likes to make his displeasure known that way. You quickly realize it’s because he doesn’t want to have that conversation, which is a shame because you _do_ want to have that conversation.

You start exploring his ship too, and for the most part he lets you runs free until you run into a corpse (?) that appears frozen in (you’ll later learn it’s some cryogenic shit) and nearly faint again.

He sets a cot up for you in a hall outside the cockpit. (Apparently there’s only one bed around and there’s no way he’s offering it up to you.) He tells you to stay, be good, and for the most part you oblige except when the door shuts you immediately spring to life and start exploring the ship because there's literally nothing else to do. You rummage all the cabinets, all the buttons you can press that aren't labeled _do not touch_ , and you start getting to know this place that's going to be your homebase for the next however-many-weeks or months.

And then you discover _it_.

The cutest, _greenest_ thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

“You hid him from me all this time?”

And then an idea hits him.

“Watch him while I’m gone," he says. 

“I'm not a babysitt—”

“Just. Do it.” And then he leaves, the doors coming to a shut. And you’re left alone with the cutest little creature in the world cradled in your arms. “Daddy is a big boob, isn’t he?” You coo, teasing the little scruff of hair on top of his head. “It’s OK—‘cause we’re gonna have so much fun together.”

And you do, exploring the ship together until you come to a button that says **ESPECIALLY** **_do not touch_** scrawled in big bold letters that kind of make the other do-not-touch signs look like child's play. Kind of extra, but whatever. You prop up the kid on the pilot’s seat, staring at all the buttons while he starts clambering onto the deck. “Your dad sure likes to keep his ship tidy.”

But then you start wondering how he could’ve produced a kid like this—maybe there was another lady in the picture? Maybe he’s capable of asexual reproduction? Honestly you’re not sure. The more you think about it, the more you can hear the voice of Mando echo _stupid, idiot, dumbass_ in your head. And yet, truthfully, you could think about this all day until there’s a giant buzz that cuts through the entire ship.

 _“Emergency protocol activated_.”

Suddenly iron bars come down on every side and you find the culprit--it's the goddamn kid, caught red-handed, pressing the button specifically labeled **ESPECIALLY** **_do not touch_**.

Oh.

You’ve locked down the entire ship.

Three days later, Mando is, well, rightfully furious.

“I specifically labeled it ESPECIALLY _do not touch_.”

“Right," you say, following him down the hall and into the cockpit where he throws himself into the pilot's seat.

“And yet you touched it.”

“If you wanna get technical, the baby touched it—but I will take full responsibility for it.”

He sighs, “You’re coming with me from now on.”

Oof, that's rough. But totally fair. You're kind of excited about it too, but you're not about to let him know that.

*

He wasn’t lying.

He takes you out—along with the kid. And for the most part you follow along. He tells you about the bounty he’s hunting because after the button-mashing incident he realizes the alternative of not telling you the big picture is somehow much more dangerous than keeping you in the dark. So yeah, he does that, and he mentions the guy is a bit of a sleazeball (also human unsurprisingly), but that he's also one of the most skilled and sought-after assassins in galaxy. All of this takes place in yet another tavern on another planet--far, far away.

When he finishes explaining everything, he points out the target in question who's drinking at the bar.

“I took an acting class once!” You tell him, very giddy and excited as you stand up straight. “OK—that’s it. I’m going to help you out.”

“Help?”

You get up and make your way over, “I’m going to seduce him.”

“ _No,_ come back here,” is the Mandalorian’s breathless whisper, but lo and behold, you’re already off—and the only thing he can think is if he follows you now, he’s going to draw attention from every single patron here. By nature of existing as a Mandalorian. But if he lets you go, you’re probably going to get yourself killed—

 _Orrrrrrrrrr_ , the guy is apparently buying your shtick.

He leans in a little closer while you get a little more up-close-and-personal. You're jabbing him in the chest, making him laugh at some joke--and he puts his hand on your waist before it settles at curve of your ass.

Mando sees _red_ and the next moment flies by in a blur.

The blaster that unwelds itself from his pocket, the blaster shot that hits the target square in the chest, a yelp of fear as you back away, collapsing on the floor in the ensuing chaos as everyone in the tavern _floods_ to the door. Mando immediately makes his way towards you, kneeling next to you to check for any serious signs of injury. "Are you hurt? Are you OK? Did it--"

“Holy shit—you just killed him,” you murmur—and you’re smiling about it until you’re not. It fades and suddenly he realizes you’re seeing him for what he truly is.

A ruthless, cold-blooded murderer.

“You’re kind of awesome,” you tell him.

*

You get your bounty, but for some reason the Mandalorian decides it’s better to make camp over a fire while the kid sleeps in his little pod. Besides the imperial units, he also gets a sack of powder from the lady who says something about it helping him sleep at night—and that’s exactly what he tells you to and who are you not to believe him?

“Y’know—I think I’ve seen someone like you before on TV," you say, chewing on your lower lip. He thinks he quite likes the way your skin glows over the fire, and the way you wring out your neck every time you try and start a story. “I think you were in the first movie—or the fourth movie, I don’t know. But—you die.”

He stops just short of snorting, “I die?”

“Yeah. To this really good-looking guy. Like, _really_ good-looking. Like, so good-looking it should be illegal.” You glance at him, but only see your reflection in his helmet instead. “I bet you’re hideous underneath that helmet.”

“Stop trying to pick a fight with me. It won’t work.”

You frown. Kind of impressive that he’s actually seen through your nefarious plans.

“You know what’s wrong with you, right?”

“ _What_.”

You get up and press a kiss to his helmet, “Absolutely nothing.”

And then you take a seat next to him by the fire, leaning against his shoulder, feeling that cold beskar armor press back against your cheek. “Don’t tell anyone I said that,” you mutter. “Well, whatever—not like you have any friends to tell anyway.”

“You’re my friend,” he says.

Oh. That hits a little different than being soulmates. You might even say you like it _more_.

*

He starts making sense of you with him in his life. He asks you to help out on easier bounties, and you're always happy to oblige, and when it's something the requires a lot more thought and risk, he asks you to stay back with the kid. For the most part, you start getting choosier about the battles you pick--and weirdly enough, you start getting more respectful too. You _admire_ his work, and you admire the way he gets the job done, which is actually the last thing he predicted because you'd been so adamant about how much you disliked him from the moment you met.

You even stop calling him fucker, but that's just a minor silver lining.

Truthfully, he kind of likes having you around. The soulmate thing is just an added bonus. He's been pretty cynical about it for most of his life -- and it's never been one of his top priorities, what with the boatload of trauma he's had to endure as a kid -- but now that you're here, he can't quite say he doesn't like having you around. It's pretty serendipitous, too, how you ended up falling into his life. Almost like--

"I think it's fate," you tell him one day, spinning around in the passenger seat of the cockpit. "Is that crazy to say?"

"Yes."

"Ugh, you suck." You stop abruptly, looking out at the infinite space in the distance. "Can't beat that view, though. Really gonna miss it when I go home."

He glances at you over his shoulder, turns back, and doesn't tell you he'll miss it too.

That's when he gets a message he doesn't want to see.

_Happy to hear from you, Mando! Bring your girl here and we’ll get her returned home in no time._

*

It's actually kind of disappointing. More than disappointing, really. You've only been here a few weeks and time has flown by. (Literally.) You're just starting to get used to this place, and you're just starting to feel comfortable too -- Mando even set up a cot for you in the medical bay, which you've taken up residence in as your own room. The kid's starting to like you too, and you're starting to like both of them.

Which is kind of amazing because you always thought this soulmate thing was total hogwash, but lo and behold, you actually feel something for Mando. Or Din. (He still won't let you call him that because of "safety measures," whatever that means.) You're not sure if it's love, but you're attached enough to care about his well-being when he goes out for a dangerous bounty, or when he gets home later than you expect. You feel more relief when you see him in the pilot's seat of the cockpit than when he's not around. Sometimes he takes you with him and he's started promising to teach you how to hold a blaster, and the prospect of having a promise on the horizon is enough to make you practically weep with joy.

But going home would be a nice change of pace too. You miss your mom. And dad. And sister. And friends. Well, sort of. You miss the life you had, but you also know you're going to miss this life too.

Mando finally turns around in his pilot's seat to face you, "You're quiet. It's weird."

You look away, "I'm just...thinking."

"Wow, shocking."

You frown at him, staring at your own reflection in his helmet, "When I'm gone, you're gonna regret being mean to me."

It makes him pause. He turns back into his seat and you're left wondering if you said something wrong.

"Hey...Din?"

He doesn't fight you this time, "What is it?"

"I thought about what I want for my goodbye present."

"And why do you assume you're going to get a present?"

You ignore him, "I want a kiss."

He pauses, "I can't--"

"--I know." You lean against your clenched fist. "How about you turn off the lights? I won't tell if you won't."

"I can't."

"C'mon..." You nudge him in the arm. "I'm not even gonna be here long enough to let anyone know."

For some reason, it's the right thing to say because he immediately turns around and shuts down all the lights in the room until it's only the glow of outerspace in the window. "Close your eyes," he says and you oblige, squeezing your eyes shut.

"They're closed," you say, trying to sound perky about it but it comes off way more breathless instead.

You can hear the clink as he removes his helmet, setting it aside on some far off corner. You can feel him kneel in front of you, hands settling on your shoulders. Instinctively, your hand goes up to touch his--and you can feel the ridges of your name imprinted on the underside of his wrist as you take a breath.

All the blood in your body rushes to your face and you can feel the thrum of your heart slam against your ribcage.

And then.

The gentlest lips meet yours and pull away before you can even digest the fact that you've been kissed.

Next thing you know, the helmet slips back on, along with the lights and you're left staring up at your own reflection in his helmet, ready to bemoan the fact that that was barely a kiss. Actually, you're ready to shit on him and pick another fight, but he beats you to the punch before you even get the chance.

“Don’t go," he says. "Stay."

You pause.

Did you just hear him right?

“I wanna hear you say it," you tell him, hesitantly, standing up to meet his eyeline. "One more time."

A sigh comes from his modulator--it's _exhausted_ , “Don’t. Go.”

“No, I wanna hear the other thing—”

He sighs. “Stay.”

“Ask nicely.”

A pause.

“Please stay.”

“What was that?”

“Please. Stay.”

“I didn’t hear you—”

He sets his hands on your shoulders, helmet only inches away from your face as his voices blares out: “ _ **PLEASE STAY**_!”

You hop up and wrap your legs around his waist, and he barely catches you by your thighs, wobbling as he strains to catch his balance. You press the chastest kiss to his helmet, leaving a mark of your lips on the surface. “OK, OK—jeez. No need to beg. I’ll stay as long as you want,” you tell him, and then you bury your face into his shoulder, feeling him carry you right out of the cockpit. "Where're we going?"

"Bed--"

"--but we just had our first kiss."

"Bed. Now."

You grin.

**Author's Note:**

> mando...man...... mando.....
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wish to scream obscenities


End file.
